Only a formality
by interextrovert
Summary: Liraz and Ziri - what more could you ask for?


Liraz tries to think of it as a dance.

Light on your feet, twist and turn and flow, fluid and rippling, like water. Anticipating your partner's next move and mirroring it, in perfect synchronization. Graceful and beautiful. An art.

And so she slides and twists and tries to follow the pounding tempo of her heartbeat, but honestly, it's hard to think of it as anything other than _fighting_ when steel meets steel and the air shrieks in protest.

She ducks and spins and tries to ram the weapon out of Ziri's hand with the hilt of her sword, but he pulls back at the last second and flits out of her reach. She huffs and straightens, regaining her stance, sword at the ready. Ziri is waiting for her to make her move, and she pins him with her stare, icy cold and focused.

A bead of sweat meanders down his temple and drips down the line of his neck. She fixates on the trail it leaves, knowing that under it lies the staccato of his pulse—her target. She watches his chest heave with each breath he takes, his wings rising and falling with the movement. They're half unfurled and oddly threatening, black and stark. She's acutely aware of just how _alive _he is, flesh and blood and undeniably present. It's a bit hard to reconcile with the memory of a canteen tucked away against her skin, protecting the intangible soul inside.

Liraz shakes her head to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the fight at hand. Now is not the time, she tells herself. Liraz licks her lips and adjusts her grip on her sword, her palms damp and slipping. Her hair has come partly undone from her braid and it sticks to her forehead, distracting, but it anchors her to the present, and she refuses to brush it away. She steadies herself and pulls in a single breath, her pulse rattling.

A single drop of sweat drips from her chin.

The instant before it hits the ground, she lunges.

Ziri is there to meet her, and they clash together in a cacophony of metal and violence. He deflects her strike with ease and tries to sneak past her defenses with his free hand, but she jams her shoulder up and he meets nothing but hardened leather. They're perfectly matched, and every attack of hers is parried and sidestepped, and his every advance has proven futile so far. But she's tiring. She can feel it in the burn of her muscles, the frantic pounding of her heart, her gasping, heaving breaths. She's not going to last much longer.

And by the looks of it, Ziri isn't going to either.

Ziri aims a sloppy swipe at her chest. She dances back out of his reach and tries to quell the instinct to take flight. He's much taller than her, so an elevated position would definitely give her an advantage, but she's not a coward, and she'll win this fight on equal ground.

And she _will_ win, Liraz thinks, her gaze sharpening. She's aware of every single black scar marring her arms, and although she's not proud of them, she draws strength from the knowledge that she has won countless other battles like this, and this one will be no different.

She sees Ziri register the change in her demeanour a split second before she launches for him, sword angled towards his throat, deadly precise. He raises his crescent-shaped blades to block her, but at the last second she pulls back and pivots, lightning fast. Her left foot connects with his chest and he stumbles backwards, all the air stolen from his lungs. It's a dirty move, she knows, but there are no rules in a fight like this, and she'll take any opportunity she sees.

She seizes his moment of distraction to aim a jab at his hand and knock his weapon loose, and it clatters to the ground between them. He hisses in surprise or pain—she can't tell. Not giving him time to recover, she surges forward. His empty hand comes up, to grab her, probably, but she steps neatly to the side, grasps his arm, and hooks her foot under his leg.

Ziri crashes down ungracefully on his back with a grunt, wings sprawled out on either side. In an instant, Liraz is there, straddling his chest and her sword held to his throat, barely pressing against his skin. She stifles a smile at the breathless look of bafflement on his face. He didn't expect Liraz to overcome him that quickly, did he? She tries not to let any of her satisfaction show through as she says, calmly, "I win."

However, her confidence shatters the moment he begins to shake with laughter, eyes pulled up at the corners and mouth pulled tight in a barely contained grin. And then the laugh bubbles up from his chest, loud and carefree, and her face falls. Is he—is he laughing at _her?_ Was her victory really so pathetic?

Humiliation washes over her, but she fights to push it down and replace it with the cool warrior's mask that she has perfected over the years. She pushes her blade lightly against his throat, tilting his chin up—_detached, composed, deadly,_ she thinks—and says with all the authority she can muster, "What?"

His only response is to shake his head, chuckling, seemingly oblivious to the razor-edged steel pressed against his throat. Liraz flushes in outrage, and her wings flare bright, sending a wave of heat over them. She scowls and leans over to loom over him, trying to look as intimidating as possible.

"_What?"_ she asks again, her nose inches from his own, and then the next thing she knows, the world flips upside down and all the air is forced out of her lungs as her back connects with the ground. Ziri grips her wrists in one hand and has them pinned up above her head so that she can't fight back, and his other hand steadies the blade of his remaining crescent-moon blade against her neck. His breath still stutters from his laughter and dusts across her face, inches away. His smile is wide and innocent, lit by the fire of her splayed wings, but there's a glint in his eyes that makes her think he had this planned all along.

"That's funny," he says teasingly, "because it actually seems like I've won."


End file.
